There are so many things I can't tell her. It's ironic, because I can tell her anything. Just not everything.

You see, she is scared to death of love. This is not an interpretation, she has told me. But that's all right, I told her. Slow is good. Maybe better. The upshot is that all relational issues are dealt with over long periods of time, one at a time. And so they accumulate: I need her to communicate more. I need her to stop attacking the personal preferences that I'm insecure about. I need her to give me the benefit of the doubt instead of getting pissed off.

This could take months, even in a fully functional relationship. In this miasma, it could take years. What is she so afraid of? What is so terrifying about loving for the first time?

I have made my choice. I have had years to study my options, and there is no doubt in my mind: she is worth every frustration a thousand times over. Still, sometimes I wish she had an emotional inbox into which I could drop all these issues for her to peruse at her leisure.